15 The Saint in New York

'That will cost you a thousand dollars,' he said blandly.

The Saint felt in his pockets and remembered that he hadn't a nickel. Fortunately, he had deposited his ten-thousand-dollar bonus in a safe place before he went to interview Inselheim, but all his small change had been taken when he was searched after his capture. That was a broad departure from the un­derworld tradition which demands that a man who is taken for a ride shall be left with whatever money he has on him, but it was a tribute to the fear he had inspired which could transform even a couple of five-dollar bills and some silver into potential lethal weapons in his hands. He smiled crook­edly.

'Is my credit good?'

'Certainly,' said the surgeon without hesitation. 'Send it to me tomorrow. In small bills, please. Leave the dressing on for a couple of days, and try to take things easy. You may have a touch of fever tomorrow. Take an aspirin.'

He ushered them briskly down the hall, fondling the girl's hand unnecessarily.

'Come and see me any time you want anything, Fay. Good­night.'

Throughout their visit he bad not raised an eyebrow or asked a pertinent question: one gathered that a wounded man waking him up for attention in the small hours of the morning was nothing epoch-making in his practice, and that he had long since found it wise and profitable to mind his own busi­ness.

They sat in the car, and Simon lighted a cigarette. The doc­tor's brandy had taken off some of the deathly lassitude which had drained his vitality before; but he knew that the stimula­tion was only temporary, and he had work to do. Also there was still the enigma of Fay Edwards, which he would have to face before long. If only she would be merciful and leave the time to him, he would be easier in his mind: he had his normal share of the instinct to put off unpleasant problems. He didn't know what answer he could give her; he wanted time to think about it, although he knew that time and thought would bring him no nearer to an answer. But he knew she would not be merciful. The quality of mercy was rare enough in women, and in anyone like her it would be rarest of all. She would face his answer in the same way that she faced the fact of death, with the same aloof, impregnable detachment; he could only sense, in an indefinable intuitive way, what would lie behind that cold detachment; and the sensation was vaguely frightening.

'Where would you like to go?' she asked.

He smoked steadily, avoiding her eyes.

'Back to New York, I suppose. I haven't finished my job tonight. But you can drop me off anywhere it suits you.'

'You're not fit to do any more today.'

'I haven't finished,' he said grimly.

She regarded him inscrutably; her mind was a thousand miles beyond his horizon, but the fresh sweetness of her body was too close for comfort.

'What did you come here to do?'

'I had a commission,' he said.

He put his hand in his breast pocket, took out bis wallet, and opened it on his knee. She leaned towards him, looking over his shoulder at the scrap of paper that was exposed. His forefinger slid down the list of names written on it

'I came here to kill six men. I've killed three—Jack Irboll, Morrie Ualino, and Eddie Voelsang. Leaving three.'

'Hunk is dead,' she said, touching the list. 'That was Jenson—the man who drove this car tonight.'

'Leaving two,' he amended quietly.

She nodded.

'I wouldn't know where to find Curly Ippolino. The last I heard of him, he was in Pittsburgh.' Her golden-yellow eyes turned towards him impassively. ''But Dutch Kuhlmann is next.'

The Saint forced himself to look at her. There was nothing else to be done. It had to be faced; and he was spellbound by a tremendous curiosity.

'What will you do? He's one of your friends, isn't he?'